Panacea
by gentlewinnix
Summary: Lewis Nixon is captured and tortured for information. Upon his return, he is a changed man- but he finds comfort in a man named Dick Winters. Winnix. Warnings: graphic violence.


**Author's Note: **Tags include: AU - Modern Setting, Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Nightmares, Amputation, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Suicide Attempt.

* * *

Time passes at a slow crawl, broken apart only by each new onslaught of pain. Lew doesn't talk; they cut his feet, press a hot iron to his side, hose him with scalding hot water, piss on his wounded leg, twist his ankles and break his fingers. He doesn't know if there's a part of him left unscathed after what must be a week or two of fruitless interrogations; he writhes naked on the floor in a pool of his own blood and vomit and wishes he was dead. They promise relief in exchange for his secrets, but he knows they have no use for a man so near death who's told all he can, that they'd toss him out on the streets to die anyway, a traitor to his own country. Sleep is the only relief, but he grows to expect them to drag him out of it cruelly, inflicting more pain on his broken body or feeding him rotten food and tepid water.

There comes a day when there are gunshots outside, and then- Lew could cry- an American is there, asking him what his name is, and he chokes out weakly, "_Captain Lewis Nixon. I'm a-an American,_" before succumbing to his exhaustion.

He wakes up in a helicopter, wrapped up in a thermal blanket, a medic working on his leg. He knows it's beyond saving, skin mangled and infected, black veins spidering up his knee. He can't feel his foot anymore, but the rest of his leg- well. The pain is duller now, but it's still harsh enough that he lets out a broken sob and reaches out for someone, anyone, and a soldier takes his hand and rests Lew's head in his lap, crooning nonsense to him and brushing the hair off of his forehead, likely knowing that Lew won't survive through the night.

Lew throws up and passes out.

* * *

Somehow, Lewis survives. He wakes up again at some dark hour, shivering and feverish, the sheets soaked in sweat. He's too hot; he throws them off and lies gasping like a bellows, his stomach churning sickly. He can't think or feel anything, the pain is too intense, and he allows a whimper to escape him, tears flooding his vision at the exertion.

Lew lies there until a nurse making his rounds finds him. He curses at the sight of Lew, splinted fingers clutching the bedcovers, wheezing in agony.

"Christ, how long've you been like this?" he mutters, digging up a syringe and flitting away. He returns with the syringe full and administers the painkiller wordlessly, patting Lew on the hip when the deed is done. "Get some rest, sir," he says.

And Lew sleeps.

* * *

It takes a week for the sepsis to get out of his system. Lew spends most of the time asleep, his body needing the rest. He can't keep any solids down for the first few days, so they feed him soup and crackers and give him vitamin supplements for what the food can't provide. He's immobile, his right leg gone from the knee down now and still healing at the stump. The burn on his side forces him to lie at an odd angle, leaving his back and neck constantly aching. It's a wonder that it hadn't gotten infected too, the doctor remarks.

The nightmares come quickly enough. He wakes up on the third night already feverish and gripped with the symptoms of his poisoned blood, and with the memories fresh in his mind as well, it's too much. He begs the night nurse, Roe, to make it go away, but he shrugs helplessly.

"We ain't got nothin' for night terrors out here." Roe says. "Sorry, sir."

Roe gives Lew his shot, and everything fades to black.

* * *

Lew stares down at the food on the tray, feeling queasy. What once would have been an appealing meal to him- steak, mixed vegetables, mashed potatoes, and dinner rolls- now makes his stomach turn.

"I'm not hungry," he mumbles.

"You need to eat," Roe counters evenly. "Get your strength back so you can heal."

"No, I- you don't understand-"

"Captain Nixon," Roe says firmly, "if you do not eat something off of this tray-"

"Alright, alright, don't yell at me," Lew snaps. "I get it. Christ."

It's not that he's being stubborn. The sight and smell of the food- it brings it all back, with shocking clarity: him, lying prostrate on the ground, weak and sick with hunger and blood loss, pleading weakly for something to eat. They'd thrown in a limited quantity of rotting fruits, meats, and moldy, ant-infested bread.

Lew was too starved at that point to care, and wolfed it down only for it all to come back up hardly ten minutes later. He'd passed out not long after, too weak to stay conscious, and only woke when they began to beat him once again.

Presently he dips a spoon into the mashed potatoes and brings it to his lips. It's the most appealing of his choices- they'd not had potatoes in the bunker. Still, his stomach churns and he barely suppresses a gag as it slides down his throat.

"There you go," Roe says, softer now. "Keep it up, buddy. You'll be back home sooner than you think."

* * *

The first time they get him out of the bed, he's given crutches and helped up onto his foot. It's strange, the way he feels like his right leg is still there, the way all of his weight shifts onto his leff. He's still too physically weak to stay on his feet for long, and the exertion of walking with the crutches drives him back to his bed soon enough.

In spite of all that, Lew's spirits are lifted considerably. Knowing that he can walk under his own power if need be, no wheelchair or nurse at his side like a hawk brings its own kind of pleasure.

* * *

Lew is flown back stateside after two weeks in the field hospital. He's taken to the VA in Edison, and his sister is there as he's being wheeled into his room.

"Lew," Blanche croons, running over the embrace him, "God, Lew, I was so worried. Don't you ever do that again."

He lets the tears spill down his cheeks, smiling. "I don't plan on it," he says, and returns the embrace. She pulls away after a moment, letting the nurses get him situated on the bed. Her eyes drift down to his right leg, and she stills.

"My God, it really is gone."

Lew follows her gaze, frowning. "Yeah," he rasps, sniffling. "Yeah, it is. There was no saving it."

Blanche's gaze snaps up to his face, like she can't stomach looking at it any longer. She appraises him critically. "You're so thin. What've they been feeding you?"

Lew thinks about rotten food. His stomach turns. "Soup," he says. "And painkillers." He cracks a grin, but Blanche looks heartbroken. "I couldn't keep anything down. I'm better now, Blanche, it's okay. I had a PB&J on the plane." He doesn't mention that he'd been sick anyway.

She brightens considerably. "That's good, Lew. You just focus on getting better now, okay? I'll worry about all the other stuff."

"Stuff like Kathy?"

"Lew…" Blanche trails off, uncertain.

"It's alright," he says. "It's fine. I'm over it."

* * *

It's not alright. He's not sure anything will ever be alright again.

* * *

Blanche awakes him some time after one. The moment she touches him he flinches away, bolting upright with a scream. Blanche steps back, startled.

"Lew? Are you- are you awake now?"

He turns to her voice, but he can't see her- only the men who did this to him.

"Leave me alone," he says, voice cracking. "Please. I don't know anything."

"Lew, it's me, Blanche. You're home in New Jersey, remember?"

"No," Lew sobs. "Don't lie to me." He moves, trying to tuck his legs up against his chest, but loses his balance, falling back against the pillows with a whimper of distress.

Blanche steps closer, taking Lew's hand. "I'm not lying. Here. See, I won't hurt you." He looks down at their fingers in wonder.

"I'm home," he says, disbelieving.

"Yes. Yes, Lew, you're home. You're safe."

"O-oh god. I-I thought I was...I-I thought..." Lew keens and Blanche sits next to him, wraps him up in her arms as he's suddenly wracked with sobs.

"Shh, Lew. It's alright. You're safe." Blanche rubs his back and kisses his cheek, slowly working him down. After a while he stops cry and sits trembling in Blanche's arms, not ready to be left alone. He imagines that Blanche is already far out of her comfort zone, but supposes she can make an exception when her big brother is hurting like this, with no one else there for him.

"Here, lay down. You need to rest." At his look of fear, she adds, "I'll stay right here with you."

Lew nods shakily and carefully eases himself back down so he's curled on his side facing Blanche. He reaches for her hand again and she accepts it without hesitation.

"How's your leg?" Blanche asks, her gaze sliding down to the stump of Lew's right leg. He looks down at it too, frowning.

"Aches," he replies shortly.

"Forecast called for rain today," says Blanche. "Figured I'd ask. Is it- do you need painkillers?"

"No, it's not bad," Lew mumbles. He's exhausted, eyes falling shut, his grip on her hand weakening. "Just...uncomfortable."

Lew slips back into sleep, and doesn't dream of anything at all.

* * *

He comes home to an empty house.

Kathy's taken everything but his bed, the couch, and his clothes. Even the dog. That's what hurts him the most. She took _his_ goddamn dog.

He's just gotten his prosthetic. His stump aches terribly and he decides he doesn't need to keep the damn thing on. What good is it, anyway? He'll be dead in a week. There's nothing but whiskey in the fridge and he doesn't trust himself to drive. Does he have any friends left in Jersey? Surely not.

He pulls a bottle from the fridge and collapses on the couch. Pulls off the prosthetic. Cracks open the lid. Drinks. He doesn't think of anything, his mind as empty as the room around him.

Lew drinks until he passes out.

He dreams of pain.

* * *

A week later he wakes up in a hospital. There's a man sitting next to him. He recognizes him as Harry Welsh, his best friend before the war.

"Hey," says Harry. "Thought you'd be out for longer."

"W-" Lew coughs, his throat unbearably dry and irritated. Harry hands him a styrofoam cup of water. Lew drinks. He hates styrofoam, hates that it gets used once and thrown away and buried underground, takes hundreds of years to break down and be absorbed into the environment.

He drinks.

When the cup is empty he tries to speak again. "What happened?" he asks.

"You gave yourself alcohol poisoning," Harry says mildly. "I found you passed out on your kitchen floor. They had to pump your stomach."

"Fuck."

"That's what I said." Harry frowns. "You know, you could have called me."

"What?"

"I didn't even know they found you." Harry's expression darkens. "I thought you were dead."

"Yeah, well." Lew shrugs. "I wish I _was_ dead."

* * *

He meets Dick Winters at a disabled combat veterans support group. Harry had dragged him to the church after he was released from the hospital and asked him to sit through one session. He plunks himself down in a seat and tries to make himself small, but eventually it's his turn to tell a story, and- well.

He tells them about the ambush, the interrogations, the helicopter and the field hospitals, everything up to the stomach pumping. There's a redhead with a service dog and scars on his face who hasn't spoken yet watching him intently, and yet Lew gets the feeling he isn't actually _seeing_ him. After he's finished his own story, he finds out why.

"I'm Dick," the redhead introduces himself. "I was blinded by a frag grenade."

* * *

Lew's life starts to feel real again when he and Dick get to talking. They go on a few dates and Lew tries not to notice the people staring at them, tries not to think about one of them watching for the wrong reasons.

It's not long before they're fucking in Lew's Corvette in the church parking lot, but what they have- it's more than that, it's something he's afraid to put a name to but he feels it when Dick's fingers graze over every inch of his face, attempting to create a mental picture of him. It's something he hasn't felt in a long time, and never with Kathy.

He drives Dick home and says goodbye to Toby, patting his furry head, and watches as Dick walks up to the door and makes it inside. He doesn't leave until he sees the lights flick on.

Old habits die hard, he supposes.

* * *

When they make love, Dick likes to kiss Lew first, snaking his hand along Lew's elbow up to his face; finding his cheek and pressing in to lick into his mouth shyly. Then Lew will guide Dick into his lap, or if they're at home in bed, he'll straddle Dick's hips, his body warm and solid over Dick's. Dick wants to touch Lew, to feel more of his body, but Lew is nervous and always pushes wandering hands away.

"Please don't," Lew rasps. He doesn't want Dick to feel his scars, but he won't say it. Dick understands, anyway, blinking his blind eyes and smiling a little. Lew was unsettled by his eyes the first few times, the way Dick looks somewhere over Lew's shoulder when he's speaking, the way his pupils always stay blown wide no matter how much light pours onto his face. He can't help it, but it's eerie.

Dick slips his hand further down, unbuckling Lew's belt. He gasps as he feels Lew's hardness, wraps his fingers around him and pulls gently. Lew's hips jerk up of their own accord and he whines low in his throat, reaching for Dick's cheek. Lew runs his fingers over the little scars on Dick's cheeks, sighing, and Dick closes his blind eyes, his hand working languidly between them.

Lew isn't sure what it is that they have, but when he fumbles with Dick's zipper and takes them both in his fist, both of them coming on a gasp moments after, he feels more content than he has in years.

* * *

They're at Lew's house, Toby guiding Dick around the new environment while Lew fixes them lunch in his underused kitchen. It's spring, the windows open and the air blowing in fresh and crisp, and when Lew comes into the living room with the smell of food following him he finds Dick standing in front of a window, his fingers on the glass.

"What does it look like outside?" Dick asks, his voice quiet.

"Green," says Lew. "There's- there's some tulips, in the front. Kathy planted them. They're orange and pink." Dick tries to imagine the colors, but all he sees is darkness.

"Did you love her?"

The plates clatter as Lew sets them down, and Dick turns towards the sound. "No."

Dick nods, flattening his palm against the glass. Lew imagines he can feel the warmth he can feel the warmth of the sunlight streaming in. Dick had told him once that it's the one thing he misses most. The last time he saw light, it was an explosion just a few feet from his face. Then his sight was gone forever. There's a strange ache in Lew's chest.

"There's food," he says.

"I know." Dick quirks a smile.

* * *

It's not like the nightmares have stopped. He still wakes up with the pulsing of a helicopter in his ears, an echo of his own raw screams. Dick can't see him, he never will, but somehow he knows when it's okay to touch Lew and when he shouldn't. He knows when Lew just needs to be held and when he needs to be fucked back to sleep.

He's a better man than Lew ever will be.

But Dick doesn't seem to agree with that. He tells Lew how brave he was to endure those awful interrogations, how strong he was to do what was right and keep the information from them even as he was dying in his own filth. Lew shies away from Dick, uncomfortable, but the ginger finds his chin and tilts his face up for a kiss.

"I love you," he says, and Lew stops breathing. "I don't think I've said that. It's true. I love you, Lew."

"Dick." Lew's voice breaks. "I'm- I-I don't-"

"Shh," says Dick. "It's okay. You can say it when you're ready."


End file.
